WHAT’S ON YOUR MIND?

WHAT’S ON YOUR MIND?

Is what gets me in trouble!
Because sometimes I am bitter –
& mean. Hypocrisy
fights me into dark corners.
So, that is what is partly on my mind.
As I walk a lonesome brick street
of this neighborhood where once
I went crazy. Dropped acid and lived
to talk about it. & now under this
waning early summer moon, yes
I am feeling sorry for myself,
because this is all about me.
We are all only human …
This darkness that sometimes
we all slip into?
Some know to bite
their tongues and just deal with it.
Some can’t speak softly when peace
is at risk. Some die from trying
to tread softly on middle ground.
What is really on my mind is a truth that
is hard to swallow. My own medicine would
kill any preacher, caught in his own empty
church.
I & You and me and them
and this machine, playing on our vanity.
Mentioning our fears, showing us images
that we have no control over. Images stolen
from broken dreams, war and death, violence.
Our memories thrown in our faces, first thing
in the morning when we are not even ready
for what we may not know was in the past
haunting.
What is on my mind?
Is what I was told long ago.
This world is not fair.
You have to work hard for what you love.
Speak your mind, except be careful with truth,
sometimes it hurts and can be
used against you like poison.

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On Woody Guthrie’s Birthday

Oh Woody, I am thinking about you!
I have grown somewhat bitter.
I must admit!
I know you – sometimes I fancy
that I am just like you.
But maybe it is because I know too much
and have been burnt by the fire.
So, a few questions I might ask. For
I am romantically involved so as to
mention – Sarah Ogan Gunning!

Was she bitter because Aunt Molly got
to hang around all them rich folks?
Was it because Pete played for the
Rockefellers, while singing –
I don’t want, your millions mister?

Hypocrisy is a bitch!
If you point it out –
they will bury you!
How much more crap should I take
before I “die with my hammer in
my hand?”

I heard Sarah ripped your ass once –
because you did one of her songs.
She picked your little ass up and
almost ringed your neck.
Is that true?

Woody, brother, i see what you saw,
and I think I know why you wrote all
night, alone, falling asleep on your
typewriter, full ashtray …

It takes a worried man,
to sing a worried song.

I certainly am worried.

One last question:

Did you ever hear Joe Hill talking
to you? I have.He said,
Don’t mourn, Organize.
So, i organized my life.
Trying not to get bitter and
am working now as a deck
hand on a Ohio River
Steamboat built two
years after you was borned.

Brother,
I wish we could hang out!
See, I worked on the railroad.
Found a lonesome darkness
engulfing me.
I gave it all up.
Once I built a railroad ..
you know the rest.

Brother,
For your birthday –
I offer you a song.
I wrote it for Jimmie
Rodgers. I have alot
in common with him too.

When the song
gets to the part where
I sing “I think y’all knowd.”
That part is for you!

Happy Birthday.

Love,
JP “Catfish John” Wright

P.S

You wanna hear some shit?
I heard Sarah Ogan died at a
singing circle. Time came
for her to sing. She took a
deep breath, and died.

I wonder if the dress she
wore was blue?

She sure knew how to
drive that steel!


Dear America,

America’s myths are
being exposed and run
through the ringer
of public discourse.
Dear America,
Keep trying to explain
your way out of this.
The more you talk,
the more you expose
your weakness.
You know you lied!
You snuck out
of the house.
Got drunk.
Wrecked the car.
Date raped the country
and someone caught
you on video.
You know slavery was
an evil and not to mention
a labor policy called
human trafficking.
A slave is:
a slave
is a slave.
Like the workers
who make your shirt!
Pick the apples
for your pie.
Like the
wage slave
at a for – profit or
501 c whatever –
who is expected
to trade
love for labor,
because they are
part of
“the team.”
Like the military protecting
“our”
oil interests in the region.
So,
keep talking.
Your children are
getting the picture.
You can’t blame this
on commies and reds.
You cant blame this
on the media.
The issue is –
you lied about
what you did.
So, fess up.
America …
the more you try
to lie and make
excuses –
the more you
dig your own grave.
The founding fathers
were just men.
Like all other.
They were
just men, protecting
their own ass.
They wanted
power, land
and money.
They made selfies
called dollars.
They enslaved
women, children.
Nothing was
sacred unless
they owned it.
They prayed
to God that trust
wouldn’t find them
delusional.
Now,
they
are being
crucified
by their own
children.
Melted away
in a pot of
their own
creation.
John Paul

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My Late Mother, Visits This Morning …

An image, i could have swore

was your face, while mine

dripping wet, glasses on the

sink, blurry vision – hands

cupped, water splashing like

morning prayers – I saw your

look in the mirror. The one

when you were fighting all

the King’s horses and all

the King’s men, like when

somebody was messin’ with

one of yours.

 

A feeling. Like old women

wailing at icons and kissing

pictures of saints – and I

get this feeling, that rushes

through my soul – something

like a haunting, ominous breath

or a reminder … “These are not

children, playing children’s games!

A warm kiss on my ear from

somewhere there, and my

morning ritual continues …

 

When you were dying, i asked

to whom were your praying …

like two students might ask, who

are you reading these days, and

you said … “Mother Mary.”

I should have known you would

say that. You said, “She was so

powerful, and knew what they

were doing to her son. She even

saw her own son, die.”

 

And like that, this little boy wakes

with a download! A muse whispering

from some distant star. Vibrations

tickling thought and memory. A

voice of a writer who never was

allowed to speak – slips in like

a dervish merchant, like a little

kid tapping one shoulder and

then playfully running

the other way. —

 

… and after writing that down …

i walk out my backdoor –

in ritual, trees waving – frigid

breeze of morning and yes

i hear you! That lonesome

whistle! We used to be.

And, I loved you.

Your cold steel friends, unforgiving

extremes … heat like radiation –

cold like death. Everywhere

I look this morning, i feel

as if I am walking a graveyard.

Memories like grass and weeds

not cut for years around markers

long forgotten …

Escape is not relative or

being courted –

death like vision and mission

moves about like fireflies

in every tearless glance.

And i feel a peace

in knowing love is

as a lover sings lullabies

to a dead child as leaves

fall to renewal – as

light fades like a life

connection – as an old

person only remembers

the good old days.

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